


Just a Thought...

by TheLadyRebel



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed (Video Game), Ramblings, The Animus (Assassin's Creed)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 00:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyRebel/pseuds/TheLadyRebel
Summary: The ramblings of Subject 16, Clay Kaczmarek.





	1. Make it Count

For most, life is a constant struggle. For me, it is simply a challenge that must be taken on at full force- no tucking your tail between your legs and hoping you can run away fast enough before it finally catches up to you and bites you in the ass. Unfortunately, most are unable take charge and deal with the problems dished out to them. I've met numerous people that are perfectly happy with just sitting back and watching their world crumble before their eyes. They believe that crisis will resolve itself; even though, deep down, they know that the effects of what they've allowed are now irreversible. Even now as I sit here, practically dead, I realize that humanity is most definitely worth the struggle that it provides.

The only living part of me is, perhaps, my soul. Not even I know entirely. What I do know; however, is that I never planned on giving up throughout the span of my existence. Never once did I think, "Huh, this is hard. Maybe if I sit back and let the issue repair itself, things will get better for me and the universe." No. Those are the thoughts of cowards. Well, not cowards, per say, but procrastinators. They're the same in my book, regardless. Both of them either too afraid or too lazy to get up and make a change. And that is where their main flaws lie. Both of them lack effort. The effort to try; the effort to...what's the word? "Brave" the path before them, rather than laze around and do nothing about it. 

Repetitive. Repetitive is exactly what I'm being now. Repeating myself, trying to push across a point that I know no one gives a flying fuck about. What do I have to say to them? LISTEN.

All this time, every waking minute, I have been trying to explain to them that they have to try. Who are "they"? Well, "they" are the everyday people that make your life possible. "They" are the workers, the doers, the people that learned their lesson. The ones that got up and did something with their being. Not their life, existence, or any other entirely pointless matter. They put forth the effort to change with their simple BEING; yet, they still did not COMPREHEND.

At first, I'm sure you thought that all of this was making sense, didn't you? Looking at it from the perspective of the victim, I can tell you that; although none of it makes sense, it all makes perfect sense. It is the exact truth that you've been seeking for the entirety of your miserable, little existence. And THAT is the reason you will never see its actuality.

 

You exist. You do nothing but exist...

It is impossible for me to relay the factual depth of the above argument... I feel as though nothing will change, even if the truth is before your eyes. You will not see; you will refuse to see, and thus your life will be barred from what really IS.

My advice to you is that you think. Use your head. Get through this. It will all be over in the blink of an eye if you don't. As for me, I'm stuck: half dead, half living. My being is only partial to the life surrounding me. But yours isn't. 

Make it count.


	2. A Reflection Upon Oneself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More ramblings from the perspective of Subject 16.

The world revolves around choice and change, whether we wish to accept this or stay blind to it. Rulers are usurped, innocents die, nations fall, and we’re perfectly content with watching it all dissipate.

On occasion, one may suggest Order; yet, they cannot see that this Order has already snaked its greedy hands about their throats and begun to strangle the very life from them.

Our “choice” is not choice at all, but a leash given to us sheep to control us. Those of us with a righteous mind and a conscience know better than to blindly follow. We break the leash, burn it, and keep our feet planted firmly on the ground. We rebel. And we’re worse off for doing so.  
It’s just a goddamned paradox.

We grasp hungrily at every minuscule opportunity to boast about our “freedoms” when, truly we’re bragging about the lack thereof. It’s so fucking PATHETIC. 

If we cannot choose, then we must change. Change is what permits this world to function. Change is what keeps us SANE. Change defines the cowards, the selfish, the petty; those lemmings that would better society by keeping their mouths SHUT.

But with change comes a feral responsibility that will slit your throat at a moment’s notice if given the chance. It will EAT. YOU. ALIVE. But it is a necessity, regardless.

Funny: the very thing keeping this civilization alive strives for our death. In fact, how do we know it hasn’t already begun to KILL US?


	3. A Formal Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, but sweet, apology.

Recently, some might say I've been a little harsh. Maybe I've misjudged a few "unfortunate souls unable to properly speak for themselves". Maybe I've offended YOU. Maybe I've broken you down, made you feel EXPOSED.

I suppose you're requesting a sincere, heartfelt apology and I suppose it's a disappointment that you won't be getting one.

When you're handed every opportunity in life, patted and praised at every turn, who are you to chide me for offering you directive?

I don't deserve the rebuke, nor do I request it. I simply wish to pry open your eyes and demonstrate how PITEOUS you are. 

I hope you can forgive me, honestly.


	4. By DNA, Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay's thoughts on family.

We, as a people, are shaped by influence. We cling to our experiences like frightened children, afraid to truly embrace the world. We select those we believe weak, and they become the scapegoats of our past, but we do not permit ourselves to take such a thing seriously. The victims of our blame will then forever carry the burden of our actions and learn to despise their surroundings.

Irresponsibility and fear cloud our judgement, causing us to commit such atrocities as this, and we later grow to regret our decisions. Looking back, we often wonder where we could’ve gone wrong; timidly taking these issues onto ourselves in the manner that they should be taken. We then look to those who we have wrongfully deemed responsible for our actions: the architects of our early lives. Our caretakers, our providers, those who fostered us in times of need. Our parents.

Whether they have raised their child in the appropriate manner or otherwise, parents are the sole reason for our individual mannerisms. We observe their every move in our younger years; obsessing over their speech patterns and their interactions with other functional members of society. We then learn to mimic them. Their excitation soon become our own and we are then filed into the category of: facsimile.

Tucking these childhood memories into the depths of our minds, we tell ourselves that we will never need to reflect upon them in our future. After all, who needs the advice of those that are clearly more experienced in particular matters than we are? 

Not I, said the boy as he committed his very first crime. And so he was carted off to jail, to live out the rest of his life bent over by those more powerful than he. Only then did he begin to conceive what he had been forewarned of by his loving mother and father.

Because of thrilling misadventures such as this, we realize that both mother and father play a tremendous role in shaping us…

And, ultimately…

Destroying us…

By definition, a parent is one who provides for or protects others. 

In extension, a father would be considered a man who exercises care over others; a paternal protector or provider as well.

Without a single shred of regret, allow me to simply state that my father didn’t know the meaning of the title bestowed upon him by my birth. In actuality, the only thing connecting the two of us, excluding physical appearances, is our DNA. 

Looking back, I can remember in vivid detail the very first time he laid hands upon me. If I remember correctly, I was merely nine years of age when the beatings began; and they drifted well into my adolescence. 

I recall being fearful each time my mother would leave the house, as my father would send me away to my room, bruised and bloodied after he had enacted his hatred upon me. Bastard, he would snarl, worthless scum of the earth. 

You should’ve never been born.

These words I grew accustomed to. 

As I grew older, my days blurred together and I had begun to lose track of time entirely. Beatings continued, as my mother determinedly worked to support my dipsomaniacal father and I, and I felt myself ambling further and further away from those who did care; my mother included.

Resentment is the only word I will allow myself to use when providing a description of my own feelings toward my “father”. I do not hate him for his actions.

Hatred is for those who cannot come to terms with the offenses directed toward them.  
Hatred is for those who cannot move on.

As one might assume, I am a very capable man.

Steeling myself to the world, I did move on. 

The only thoughts of my father that plague me now are the questions that I wish I could have asked him, had I not been too terrified to approach the man.

Why me? What had I done to deserve such treatment?

But dwelling on inquiries will not carry me forward, and so I am pleased that I may dispel these emotions without a second thought as to why I did so. 

My father is no longer among the living.

And that is one of the few similarities the two of us currently share...

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of a small series of snippets I wrote based around Subject 16. Written in 2013.


End file.
